They Came from the Grand 'Ole Opry

First, Georgia gave you Scarlett O'Hara and debutante balls. Then it was Southern Baptists, sweet tea and grits. Now, from the epicenter of Southern gentility, the very buckle of the Bible Belt, comes Nashville Pussy's latest CD: Let Them Eat Pussy!

Not too well-known outside of heavy metal circles, this band from Athens, Georgia is often compared to Kiss, Motorhead and AC/DC--they get their rather original name from the time Ted Nugent dedicated "Wang Dang, Sweet Poontang" at a Tennessee concert to "all that Nashville pussy."

One of the things that immediately sets Nashville Pussy apart from other heavy metal bands is the fact that half of the band members are women. However, these ladies have a decidedly different idea of "girl power" than say, the Spice Girls--replace the cute baby tees and trendy platform shoes with tattoos and leopard-print bras, and you have bassist Corey Parks and lead guitarist Ruyter Suys.

Parks has garnered much admiration and infamy among Nashville Pussy's fans, as much for the clear brassiere she wears at shows as for her musical talent. She towers at a height of six feet, three inches (6'7" including her boots and cowboy hat)--at Nashville Pussy shows, she blows fire into the crowd by spewing liquor from her mouth onto an open flame and often kicks her male admirers in the head.

Suys, who has been playing the guitar for nineteen years, provides most of the punch behind Nashville Pussy's music. In the rip-roaring "Go Motherfucker Go," Suys proves herself to be more than just a passing instrumentalist, with admirable riffs that pretty much make the song. The fiery introduction to "All Fucked Up" is an exceptional example of her skill. Any notion that "chicks" can't cut it in the heavy metal world will quickly be put to rest by her amazing guitar pyrotechnics; as she is one of the few truly talented female guitarists in rock and roll today. Think of her as Beavis's wet dream.

Her skilled playing is supplemented by her husband, Blaine Cartwright (former guitarist for Nine Pound Hammer), who also plays guitar and sings--or rather, bellows--the vocals. Although I had a difficult time understanding him, his hoarse screams went rather well with the thrashing guitars. He has a couple of thrilling two measure solos in "Blowin' Smoke" in which you can actually hear his voice. In the background, drummer Jeremy Thompson, once a member of the band Phantom Creeps, does what he can--which isn't too much.

Let Them Eat Pussy is electrifying. The whole CD is only twenty-seven minutes long, which means that each song lasts an average of about two minutes. Each track is loud, fast-paced and chock full of adrenaline; it's definitely the kind of music head-banging was made for. The music puts you in a completely jittery, violent mood. "I'm the Man," in particular, made me want to drink lots of cheap beer and Southern Comfort, go hollering down a road in a pickup truck with some loud rebel yells, bash some mailboxes with a baseball bat, and then go cow-tip-ping. (Quite an endorsement from a 5'4" Asian girl who mostly listens to Sarah McLachlan and likes to read Pablo Neruda poems.)

Nashville Pussy was kind enough to supply The Harvard Crimson with its special "bonus disc of rare tracks," creatively titled Eat More Pussy. It's pretty much more of the same, but perhaps a tad more musical than the tracks on the LP. Sometimes they even allow Cartwright to sing something resembling an audible melody. Not to worry, however; Suys always takes over with her guitar before he can get too much out. She especially shines in "Milk Cow Blues" with some truly jaw-dropping guitar solos.

As criticisms go, Nashville Pussy is not the place to look for nuance or subtlety. I guess I first realized this when I noticed that the disc of Eat More Pussy is decorated with a knife and fork. Variety isn't a strong point, either; all the songs sound basically the same. Often, the only way I could tell that one song had ended and another had begun was the brief period of feedback which opens nearly every song, a habit I found to be too juvenile and hackneyed for the level of music they were performing.

But let's be honest: you don't buy a CD called Let Them Eat Pussy to enjoy the finer points of music. You want to hear loud guitars, grating vocals and lyrics that rhyme "motherfucker" with "sucker." Here, Nashville Pussy delivers. Regardless of its flaws, the jolt of pure energy that they provide is surprisingly addictive. Although it's embarrassing and a bit alarming to find yourself singing things like "Wake up with my balls on fire/Sweat gasoline when I piss fire" in the shower, you'll soon find yourself hooked on Nashville Pussy's simple, energetic songs.

So, resigned to my fate, I confess with humility, guilt and more than a little embarrassment: I have been Pussy-whipped!